


35 Years of Bad Luck

by D_Prime



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Prime/pseuds/D_Prime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Stiles broke a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Made Me Love You (I Didn't Want To Do It)

There's a woman inside Stiles.

He always thought it'd be the other way around. Does this mean he's lost his virginity? Because wow, that would be disappointing. She hasn't even _done_ anything to him below the waist; even in death, Kate Argent is a killjoy. Though he's pretty sure he caught her checking out his - her? their? - ass when she slid those ridiculous leather pants onto him. Leather's probably standard dress code in Hell.

He's thinking these things to distract himself from the feel of his tongue poking at Derek's navel. The Big Bad Sourwolf is glaring at him, growling, and Kate makes Stiles laugh in response. Derek won't fight back, because she doesn't care what happens to this body. And apparently Derek does.

"Come on, baby." she purrs, moving Stiles' hands up the Alpha's thighs. "We both know you're enjoying this." She unbuttons Derek's pants, and Stiles wonders if losing his virginity to Derek might be better than losing it to Kate. (The answer he comes up with is _oh my god **yes**_ but that's not helping anyone.)

Kate doesn't seem able to read Stiles' thoughts, or maybe she's too busy watching Derek squirm to care. But as she straddles Derek's waist, he reaches up and touches Stiles' cheek.

"Stiles." he rasps. "Stiles, if you can hear me, I'm sorry. This... this isn't how I wanted it to happen. I'm sorry. I love you."

And Stiles thinks, _you clever son of a bitch_. Because the "admission" surprises Kate - who thought she knew everything about the boy she'd used all those years ago - and in that moment, Stiles can feel her control over him flicker.

It's enough for Stiles to do what he does best: he hurls his entire body sideways, throwing himself across the living room of the Hale house to collide with the mirror hanging on the far wall. The mirror Kate was looking into when Peter killed her. The mirror that let her come back.

Glass rains down around him as he drops to the floor, and he feels Kate's presence shattering as well, into bits of hatred and fury and even blind panic, and Stiles doesn't know if he believes in Hell but he's sure that wherever Kate's returning to, it's not anywhere she wants to be.

Stiles lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and rolls over to find Derek slumped against the burnt couch like a puppet with his strings cut. And... is he shaking? His fists are clenched, and he's looking down at the floor, and he's silent.

"She's... gone." Stiles manages to say. He wants to address the elephant in the room - _so, nice bluff with the whole "I love you" thing but you're hard, you're still hard, I can see that because I'm totally checking you out because now I know what you feel like and adding this whole experience to the spank bank is wrong and creepy but I think I'm going to do it anyway._

Instead he says: "I gotta get out of these pants."

And Derek does something Stiles didn't even think he _could_ do: he laughs. He just sits against the couch and laughs, and soon Stiles is laughing too.


	2. I'm All Wrapped Up In Me (And Me And Me)

"All right, let's try this again." Deaton rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Which of you touched the mirror?"

All three of them raise their hands.

The doctor barely contains his grimace. "Okay. Stiles?"

"Yeah?" they all answer.

" _Our_ Stiles. The one in the middle. Was the mirror doing anything before you touched it?" He indicates the small rectangular piece of glass hanging by the clinic's back door.

Stiles thinks for a moment, then nods. "Yeah. It was... shimmering, I guess? Like it was wet or something."

Deaton turns to the boy on the left. "And you?"

Tough Stiles shrugs. (Stiles calls him Tough Stiles on account of the scars, the undercut ponytail and, oh yeah, the freaking katana strapped to his back.) "Same thing. This place wasn't here, though. The building was abandoned."

The vet pauses before addressing the boy on the right. Stiles can't blame him: Dark Stiles is _creepy_ , with those pitch-black eyes and the veins running up the sides of his face. "And... you?" Deaton prompts.  


Dark Stiles blinks, then whispers his answer (somehow everyone in the room can hear him, like he's speaking directly into their ears): "I was torturing a hunter. Wanted him to see his own face before I tore it off."

Stiles gulps, and chances a glimpse at his double only to find that solid, empty gaze staring back at him. "That's... kind of hardcore." he points out.

The other boy's face is blank and emotionless. "They killed him. Now I'm killing them."

Stiles wonders what hunters could've done to drive him - any version of him - off the edge like this. "Was it... Derek? Did they kill Derek?" He can't think about a world where Derek is dead. He doesn't want to think about why he can't think about that.

Dark Stiles seems confused for a moment. Then he shakes his head. "My dad."

Tough Stiles drops a curse that would make Stiles blush if he'd heard it. But he's staring at Dark Stiles, horrified beyond words, trying to imagine what he'd do if his own father had been killed. He tries to process that idea and keeps coming up against a wall in his brain, and he thinks: _What if I'd been pushed past that wall? What would I do? How many of them would I need to kill until I could breathe again? How many more until I could sleep, or eat, or do anything at all?  
_

Stiles reaches out and squeezes the warlock's hand, and for a moment his voice is as flat and cold as Dark Stiles' own: "Make them suffer."

Dark Stiles' lips perk up in a faint smile, and he nods.

"I'm sorry." Tough Stiles speaks up, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers - Deaton has made his no-smoking policy abundantly clear. "I... they killed my... someone I loved. Last year. I know what it's like."

Again, Stiles can't help but ask the same question, and refuses to consider why it's always the same name that comes to him. "Derek?"

Tough Stiles gives him a wry grin. "Someone's got a crush, huh?"

Stiles may be blushing. Dark Stiles just tilts his head the way confused serial killers do in movies.

The warrior shakes his head. "Derek's a good friend, but I can't really... I can't think about anyone else yet. We were together our whole lives, and..."

A new voice calls out from the front of the clinic. "Deaton? You said it was an emergen...cy..." Scott walks into the back room, followed closely by Allison, and three things happen in rapid succession:

Tough Stiles looks at Scott and his eyes widen. "You..."

Dark Stiles looks at Allison and his eyes narrow. "You..."

Stiles looks left, then right, and hits the deck.

Tough Stiles is the first to move, vaulting across the room to launch himself into Scott's arms. Caught by surprise, the werewolf stumbles into the nearest wall, but any protest he can make is muffled when Tough Stiles sticks his tongue in his best friend's mouth.

Allison's watching the exchange, her jaw hanging open like Wile E. Coyote, so she doesn't notice when Dark Stiles' feet lift off the ground. He raises a hand towards her, bends his fingers into a claw, and she screams. That's when all hell breaks loose.

A burst of blood-red lightning sends Scott and Tough Stiles sprawling to the ground, and Deaton ducks behind the exam table as another bolt lances out to blow a hole in the far wall. Cracks start to form on the ceiling, arcing in all directions at once. And through it all Dark Stiles is still hovering in midair, his face warped by a fury Stiles can barely imagine.

" _You bitch_." Dark Stiles whispers, and his voice is echoing around the room now, almost deafening. " _You bitch. My father. You fucking bitch._ " He twists his fingers and Allison's body starts to convulse, blood is leaking from her nose and ears and eyes and it's horrible. Scott's trying to help but Tough Stiles won't let him, too afraid of losing him again, and Stiles understands that too, understands what he'd feel if he'd been in love with Scott, and lost him, and got him back, and lost him again. He thinks:  _I'd let her die if it meant I could keep him_. And he thinks:  _Oh Jesus what am I thinking, what's wrong with us all?_

"Stiles!" Deaton yells, his voice barely carrying over Allison's agonized shrieks. Stiles isn't sure if Deaton means him, the warrior or the warlock, but it doesn't matter. There's only one thing he can think of that might help.

He pulls out his phone and dials 9-1-1.

\---

Later, Dark Stiles' guttural sobs have faded and he loosens his grip on Sheriff Stilinski, who seems to be taking the presence of his three sons quite well. He strokes Dark Stiles' hair and rocks him back and forth, and all the boy can say is "daddy, daddy, daddy" and it just breaks Stiles' heart all over again.

Scott has taken Allison to the hospital. Tough Stiles let him go, and hasn't said anything since - he's just standing there, staring at the empty door. Stiles takes a cautious step towards him, not really sure what to say.

After a tense pause, Tough Stiles' shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "It wasn't him." There are tears streaming down his face, but unlike Dark Stiles he sheds them in silence, not willing to let anyone comfort him. Then he turns to Stiles and smiles sadly. "I think... I can let go now. He's alive, and he's happy. Knowing that... maybe it's enough."

Deaton clears his throat, drawing everyone's attention to him. "Okay. It's ready. Touch the mirror and you'll go home."

Tough Stiles nods and dutifully walks over to the mirror, which Deaton has placed flat against the exam table. 

"Wait." Sheriff Stilinski says, and he looks at Stiles - his own Stiles - with genuine helplessness in his eyes. "Do we... does he have to go back? Can he stay with us?" He's referring to Dark Stiles, who's still cradled in his arms, and Stiles feels an irrational pang of jealousy.

But the warlock pulls back and shakes his head. "I can't. I... I don't belong here." He smiles, a real smile this time, and the veins have almost vanished. His eyes are still completely black, but he looks less like a crazy monster and more like a Stiles. He clasps the sheriff's hands in his own and says: "I love you, Dad. I love you so much."

The sheriff's grip is just as tight and just as sincere. "I love you too, son. No matter where you are, or what you do."

The warlock turns away, and doesn't look back as he joins Tough Stiles and places his fingers on the glass. 

Deaton says a few words in a language no one recognizes, and the other Stileses (Stilii?) fade out of existence, their essence drawn through the magical glass.

The doctor hands Stiles a brick from the rubble of the far wall, and nods towards the table. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Stiles hesitates as he stands over the mirror. He wonders how many other Stilinskis are out there, whether they're happy or alone or dead, and if there's anything he can do to help them. He wonders how many of them have gone crazy, become werewolves or kanima or something worse, how many of them have mothers instead of fathers, how many of them have slept with Lydia or Danny or Isaac or Erica.

He's so busy imagining the possibilities, imagining all the different ways his life could've gone, that he doesn't realize he's driven the brick into the glass until it cracks from the impact and releases a burst of light and warmth.

Just as well. His life isn't perfect, but he's pretty sure he likes it a hell of a lot more than the alternatives he's seen today.


	3. I Would Always Love Me So (If I Were You)

So it turns out that the fortuneteller at the carnival was dead-serious when she said Stiles was about to walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

Of course, she didn't mention that those shoes - and the feet inside them - would belong to Derek.

"Oh. My. _God_." Stiles whispers, and it's Derek's voice saying those words, which only makes the situation more absurd. The weird thing is, he woke up in his own bed, which probably means his body's... wherever Derek sleeps. Hopefully somewhere a little more hygenic than the subway car or the house.

He should be panicking more - his dad's mostly cool with Beacon Hills-type weirdness after his run-in with a magicked-up psycho double of his son - but he's still liable to freak out if he finds Stiles in the body of an accused killer. (Though as bodies go, Stiles can honestly say he's had worse.)

The weird thing is, Stiles keeps expecting the werewolf senses to kick in, Scott's always talking about things he can smell or hear, but he feels pretty much the same. He pinches one of his rock-solid biceps (nope, no inferiority complex here) and feels a little pain, but that's it. He studies the reflection in his bedroom mirror. What if there's something wrong with Derek's werewolf powers? Oh God, Derek is going to _kill_ Stiles if he breaks something. There has to be something he can do to test Derek's abilities...

"Regeneration?" he mumbles. "No good, not into the whole self-mutiliating thing..." He's jarred out of his thoughts again by the fact that it's Derek's voice rather than his own.

In fact...

He looks at the mirror and says, in as dull and monotonous a tone as he can manage: "I'm Derek Hale, and this is CNN."

Okay. That's amusing. Maybe the tests can wait. He gives the mirror a patented Sourwolf pout; it's not quite _right_ , needs more furrowed brow, maybe? And then he takes a deep breath and sings: "I'll tell ya what I want, what I really really want..."

That's as far as he can get before doubling over with laughter. Some part of him knows he's just putting off the inevitable panic attack - because Derek is probably in Stiles' body and who knows what he's _doing_ with it - but right now? He's just going with this.

"'Cause I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it, sex in the air, I don't care, I love the smell of it..." He shakes Derek's hips and it's hilarious, it's like watching an outtake from one of those really "serious" CW dramas where the guy with the perfect abs starts playing air guitar in the middle of an intense take. Step outside the craziness of Stiles Stilinski's everyday life and you get Derek Hale stripping in his bedroom.

Wait. What?

Derek's jeans - and underwear - are in a puddle around his ankles, and Stiles is staring. Just staring. And, okay, he's seen Derek shirtless before, plus there was that whole Kate Argent Made Me Hump You And I Know You Were Into It thing that they do _not_ talk about, but this... this isn't right. He can't just expose Derek like this and take his body for a test drive for no good reason.

"Regeneration." he says again, and gulps. "That... _could_ mean staying power, right?" His left hand drifts down past his hips, gives himself a tentative stroke, and it feels the-same-but-different: Derek is bigger, but the jolt that rushes through him is familiar. He wasn't really expecting it to feel exactly the same.

He tries to get a rhythm going, but his hand fits a bit awkwardly (a note Stiles dutifully stores away in the back of his mind: Derek Hale jerks off with his right hand) and it's just weird, looking into the mirror and seeing Derek look so vulnerable, so hungry. It's a look he's dreamed of seeing, but it's not Derek at all, is it?

Stiles shuts his eyes; this is all way too serious. He lets out a grunt, tries a growl but it's not enough, it's not...

"Stiles." he suddenly says, and it's really weird to call his own name out when he's doing this, but it's Derek, it's like Derek is _doing_ this to him, and his breath catches in his throat and suddenly he's right on the edge, just the idea that it's Derek's hands (sort of) on him and Derek's voice (sort of) urging him on...

"STILES!"

Okay. That wasn't him. Stiles lets out a squeak that's all the more undignified for coming out of the big scary alpha, and he slips on Derek's underwear and careens back into the mirror. His elbow cracks the pane, but doesn't shatter it outright, which is good because he's only got two hands and scrambling for his clothes is easier without picking out broken glass.

Isaac's hanging half-out of his window, staring at him with huge eyes as Stiles tries to pull on Derek's clothes and how does the man even _fit_ into those jeans, it's like wearing a freaking corset...

"I can explain." Stiles begins, and oh boy this is going to be an absolute _bitch_ to put into words, except Isaac called him Stiles.

Then the blond's eyes flare red, and he pronounces every word like he's biting off something even worse: " _What._ are you _doing_. With my _body_."

Oh crap.

" _Derek?_ " 

Another voice - a very _familiar_ voice - intrudes from the hall. "I swear to God, if I can't find _something_ to wear in his closet you are _all_ going to pay for-"

In comes Lydia, wearing an amount of makeup that would've given Amy Winehouse pause, followed closely by, well, Stiles. Or rather, Stiles' body, which is carrying itself in a very weird way.

Lydia freezes as she enters the room, her eyes fixed on Isaac (or, well, Derek), who's still giving off this angry growly vibe. Stiles would scold him for not being very helpful but he's still trying to zip up Derek's pants without getting his cock caught in the fly, because that would just make things _perfect_.

Lydia lets out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God." she whispers. "I'm okay."

So... if Stiles is in Derek, Derek is in Isaac and Isaac is in Lydia... oh _crap_.

He turns to find himself - well, his body, and really, after that thing with the Mirror People From Dimension Suck, he's much more used to this than any sane person should be. But... _Lydia._ Crap.

To her credit, she's actually not ogling Derek at all; her arms are tightly crossed across her chest, and she gives Stiles a withering look that doesn't quite have the same impact when it's his own face.

And she says: "Do you _own_ anything besides flannel and Batman underwear, Stiles? Because waking up in _this_..." She indicates his body with a dismissive wave. " _Not_ a great way to start the morning."

"Would you get in here already?" Isaac pleads to Derek. "Someone'll see me, I mean, you... _whatever_. You look like a stalker!"

Derek jumps into Stiles' bedroom, and his fists are clenched so tightly they're practically white. He is _pissed_.

"Who did this?" Isaac asks. 

Stiles shrugs. "Pretty sure it was a carny lady with a crystal ball."

Rolling her eyes, Lydia says: "That makes about as much sense as everything else that's happened this year."

"But I wasn't even at the carnival!" Isaac protests, and he and Lydia start bickering about magic and why Isaac had to use every single bottle on Lydia's dresser before he left the house, and Derek isn't participating in the conversation at all: he's still glaring at Stiles, and oh yeah, they're going to have A Conversation about this later.

Finding the fortuneteller turns out to be easy, since she's still sitting in the tent where Stiles last saw her. When the four of them barge in, she leans back and grins around the enormous cigar she's smoking.

Turns out she's a trickster spirit and it was all a big joke at the expense of the local wolf pack; Lydia starts complaining (loudly) about how she's not even part of the pack and she's had to put up with Stiles' BO and his gangly legs and his ridiculous clothes all day, and there's a bit of karmic justice in the fact that the trickster can't get a word in edgewise until she finally snaps her fingers and they all drop to the ground.

"Ugh." the woman says. "Last time I ever stop by these parts again. You humans just can't take a good joke." And then she's gone, just like that.

Lydia's the first to get back on her feet, giving herself a once-over and wiping the gunk Isaac slapped onto her face. "I'm going home." she says, dramatically sweeping her hair behind her shoulders. "Don't call me. I need a day off." Isaac nods wordlessly and follows her out of the tent, probably to find Scott.

Stiles and Derek exchange a look, but Stiles looks away first; oh yeah, that's just what he and Derek needed now, more awkwardness. This thing they sort-of-have, with the growling and the long looks and the slamming of bodies into hard surfaces... it was difficult enough to navigate before Derek knew that Stiles knew what he looked like naked.

"Okay." Stiles says, desperate to break the brittle silence between them. "Next time we switch bodies, you can jerk me off. Then we'll be even."

And Stiles _knows_ he's imagining the brief twitch of Derek's lips, like he wants to smile but doesn't dare. But he most definitely hears Derek say: "Why wait?"

Well, _damn_.


End file.
